


Not Quite Right

by Skalidra



Series: 100 Prompts [18]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: 100 Themes Challenge, Alien Clark, Alpha Bruce, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Attraction, M/M, No Sex, Power Dynamics, Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 17:10:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6997165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After their fight, Bruce and Clark have finally settled things down between themselves. For the most part. Bruce, thanks to the show they're making of him having supposedly beaten Clark in their dominance struggle, is still having trouble sorting out his mind over his instincts, especially with the new knowledge that Clark isn't actually an alpha at all. Luckily, Clark isn't blind enough to miss that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Quite Right

**Author's Note:**

> Hah! Weren't expecting to see something else for this world, were you? Well, I got a request for SuperBat, in one of my prompts - 63, 'Do Not Disturb' - and this just fit neatly into that slot, so here it is. XD Enjoy!

I never quite let myself believe that Clark’s little for-show signs of respect are real, but I come damn close on occasion. It’s hard not to, even with the memory of our fight resting in the back of my head, and the faint ache of the healing bite on my side as a physical reminder that Clark is both _immensely_ powerful, and not actually technically an alpha. It’s a strange thing to adjust to, when instinct is consumed fighting itself on the issue.

Clark _did_ beat me, did force a submission out of me, and that means a large portion of my mind is — semi-rightfully — convinced that Clark is therefore my alpha, and I should be giving him far more of my obedience than I am. The rest of it is running non-stop; configuring scenarios in which I would win a fight, pointing out the moments that Clark’s lack of a designation is apparent, and reminding me of the flatness of his scent now that I am aware that it’s false as well.

Seeing Clark’s little feigned moments of subservience — dropped eyes, his place behind my shoulder, the slight shift to be out of my way when I move — is not exactly helping clarify things to my irritatingly over-active mind. A fact that leads to me maybe snapping a little bit more than I should at both him and our teammates.

True, we haven’t had one of our shouting matches since the fight — Clark objects, and I take a breath and make myself listen before continuing — and there is an ease to the League that wasn’t there before, I’m just — as Dick phrased it — ‘grumpy.’ Honestly, the team seems to take it mostly in stride.

On the side, to keep myself in check and to channel my excess energy to something productive, I work on a rather important addition to the training room on the Watchtower. An upgrade that I’d started but never fully finished, simply because I hadn’t had the time to and it required a rather precise set of calculations.

Everything proceeds more or less normally.

At least until Clark lingers after a weekly meeting, with a significant enough look that I stay in the room as well as the rest of the League files out. No one bats an eye at the two of us staying, which isn’t surprising. Along with Diana, we’re the unofficial leaders of the League, even if it’s technically a diplomatic team in which every member has equal say. In practice, someone has to lead. Diana, Clark, and I founded the team, therefore we lead it as well. It's simple logic.

He stands from his chair, circling the table to sit down on the table in front of me, as the door closes behind the last of the rest of our team. His mouth is in a line, hands resting on one knee as he looks down at me. Clearly, whatever he has to say to me is serious, so I give it my attention. Most of my attention, anyway.

After a few moments of silence, Clark says, "You're being unfair with the rest of them." There's an almost disappointed edge to his voice, and I'm not entirely comfortable with the little spark of unease that tone raises in my chest. "You need to stop, Bruce. They don't deserve it, and it's not right for you to be taking your mood out on them when they're not the cause."

I push away the absolutely ridiculous urge to squirm, making sure that I stay still and steady underneath his gaze, and undoubtedly his ears as well. "I'm aware," I answer shortly, watching him right back. "I'll handle it."

Clark frowns, peering at me a bit more intently. "You're 'aware'? What does that mean exactly?"

I push myself to my feet, standing to my full height so — with him partially sitting on the table — I'm looking down at him instead. "It means that I've already received lectures on the subject and I am not interested in listening to yours on top of the others. I will resolve the problem as soon as possible, so you can cease worrying about it."

"Bruce—” Clark starts, and I step back and head for the door. A heavy sigh from behind me, and then equally heavy footsteps. "Bruce, just wait, would you?"

I don't. I stride towards the door instead, ignoring his voice at my back and the sound of him following. Partially out of a faint belief that if I bring this out into a public setting, he'll give up on it until he can catch me in private again.

But he doesn't.

I step past the door and Clark calls, "Bruce, _wait_." There's a tiny bit of snarl to those words, and I freeze up for half a second. More than enough time for him to come up beside me and then loop around, standing in front of me to stop me from going any further.

Then I shake it off, and curl my mouth into its own snarl. "Do _not_ try that on me," I growl back, resisting all those instincts pushing me to stop, listen, wait; anything he wants.

"Then maybe _listen_ so I won't have to," he counters. "What's going on? You've been acting off; especially around me. I know what happened, well, _happened_ , but this doesn't seem to be going away. How about you tell me what has you in this mood?"

"No."

He frowns again and shifts to stand a little more solidly in my way, which makes me want to bare my teeth and lower my gaze all at once. The conflicting desires aren't exactly helping with my irritation over not being able to find my place in relation to Clark's. It's more than a little frustrating, considering that the fight was supposed to _settle_ all of this. Perhaps it would have, if we weren't trying to give the idea that I'd won, or if I actually _had_ won. Or, maybe, if I still thought that Clark was an alpha, and my mind wasn't so frustratingly devoted to trying to usurp power from him now that I know he's _not_ one of us and instinct is less insistent about me giving in to him.

" _Bruce_ ," Clark almost threatens.

I do bare my teeth at that, just for a fraction of a second and only a tiny bit. More than enough for him to see though, and to get my point across. "It's my business, not yours. I will handle it."

Clark's voice lowers. "It _is_ my business and you know why. Bruce, come on. Talk to me. Let me help."

I study him for a moment, both hating and appreciating the calming, almost placating tinge to his voice. Then, pushing past my own unwillingness, I ask, "Are you free?"

Clark's mouth curls into an easy, warm smile. "Absolutely."

I only manage a grunt in answer to that smile, before I start forward and brush past him. "Come with me."

I swear I can _feel_ his smile at my back as he follows me, and I do my best to ignore it instead of letting myself actually react. Letting him talk is hardly something that he should be smiling over, and it absolutely does _not_ give me a little hint of satisfaction to have pleased my al— _Clark._ Not at all. I absolutely refuse to be such a slave to my own instincts that the smile of a man that I am not anything more than tentative friends with — or more accurately, allies — is enough to make me satisfied.

I lead him to the training room; thankfully, it's empty. Getting anyone else in here to leave first might have tipped others off that something was about to happen. As it is, my codes lock the door and disable the security cameras and no one will be the wiser. Whoever is on monitor duty — Diana, I believe — might see the disabled cameras, but I doubt she'll investigate, and she can't get in unless I allow it. She'd know that the only people who could shut her out would be me, or Cyborg.

"So what's going on?" Clark asks, when I turn back to him.

"I told you, I'll handle it."

" _Bruce_." A sharp sigh. "Alright, well if you're not talking to me then what are we doing here?"

I lean back against the wall and reach for the switch I just finished installing the week before. "Training."

Clark looks confused for the half second before I flick the switch, before the whole room gets bathed in a red glow. Then he gasps, shoulders bowing and one knee buckling to bring him partially to the floor. I ignore the slight thrill of it all, moving forward off the wall and towards him, where he's standing roughly in the center of the practice mats. Probably out of pure habit; talking with me wouldn't have required us to be on the mats.

"Is— Is that…?"

"An artificial red sun light source," I fill in, glancing upwards towards the new lights. "Good to have confirmation that it works; I've been actively working on the calculations to replicate it for several weeks, but I had the idea for this when I was first building the Watchtower. It fell by the wayside to make time for other projects; more necessary ones."

I get to Clark, reaching down to grab the front of his costume and pull him up to his feet. He's pretty heavy, but he's not complete dead weight and he's not immovable at the moment, so that's a step above what I've dealt with from him in the past. He takes a second to balance, and I can see the strain in his expression, but he doesn't lash out at me. Impressive; most other heroes I know would strike when vulnerable out of pure instinct, regardless of who was in front of them.

"Why did you build this?" Clark asks, something low and dangerous in his voice and the flash of his eyes up to meet my gaze.

I study him, crossing my arms to just watch for a moment. "Training," I repeat. "Just because you're powerful doesn't mean you're invulnerable, and strength is _not enough_. You may be a powerhouse, Clark, but you have very little idea how to use any of it. I'm going to teach you."

"That's not an answer," Clark points out, straightening up a little bit. "Training doesn't require crippling, Bruce."

"This isn't crippling you," I say, giving into the urge to scoff. "It's removing your advantage. You need to be able to hold your own when you're stripped of your powers. I would take Lantern's ring if I trained him as well; not that he'd ever let me keep it for any length of time, or keep it from him. If I was crippling you, I'd be wearing that ring you gave me. Red sun radiation is only harmful to you in extreme doses, and even then you'd only need to sleep in direct sunlight for a few hours to recover."

Clark steps back, looking around the room. "You could have _asked_ ," he says, with a little bit of irritation to his tone. "Bruce, you can't just _do_ things like this without asking if it's alright first. If anyone ever got a hold of this—”

"Luthor already has the technology," I point out, "and these systems only unlock to my codes, voice, pass phrase, and DNA scan. In sync. Frankly, anyone capable of bypassing all of my security measures won't need this to bring you down." I pause for just a moment, and then tilt my head a fraction towards the door behind me. "If you are not interested in improving, you can leave. I am not forcing you to stay. But if you are, the door is locked and the cameras are disabled. No one will ever see or know, if you don't want them to."

The frown that gets aimed at me isn't particularly threatening, but it does light another small flutter of unease in the back of my chest. One I ignore, of course.

"Only you would think that getting beaten in training was some source of shame." Clark's hands find his hips, weight shifting from one foot to the other before he says, "For the record, I don't like this. You should have asked before you built it, and you _definitely_ should have asked before springing it on me. I also don't like the idea that you would do this to any of the rest of our team, and I _don't_ want to hear about it happening, which does _not_ mean do it behind my back. Consent and _respect_ , Bruce."

"I respect our teammates."

"As humans, Bruce, not just power. There's a difference." He frowns at me again, then shakes his head. "I have a hard time believing that you didn't make this out of some bid to redo our fight."

"It crossed my mind," I admit. "There's no point. You're not an alpha so even if I forced you into the bottom of a match it wouldn't actually accomplish anything. It's not like you're going to just give in; even if I did beat you, it wouldn't stop you from arguing with me or challenging me."

Which is frustrating. Knowing that there's no chance of getting what instinct demands is just supremely _frustrating._

Clark watches me for another moment, and then finally just sighs and drops his arms. "Alright. You went about this _completely_ the wrong way, but you're right. What did you have in mind?"

I resist the urge to confirm that I _knew_ I was right — he won't appreciate that — and just dip my head and uncross my arms instead. "Basics. I'm not teaching you any more until I'm sure you can throw a punch and take a fall. After that we can work on the rest."

"I can throw a punch," Clark protests, with just a bit of hurt pride to his voice.

I step closer, turning myself partially diagonal and raising my arms a touch, keeping my hands open and loose to deflect, not retaliate. "Prove it," I challenge. "Demonstrate good form and we'll move on."

Clark eyes my stance with a bit of mistrust, but then slips into one that's similar, if less practiced. "I'm getting the feeling I'm going to regret agreeing to this."

I give a small snort. "The next time Luthor has you powerless and you actually have the skill to defeat him anyway, you feel free to tell me that again, Clark."

"You're unbelievable," Clark responds, but he's got a little smile. "How about we do this, and then you tell me what's going on with you? Fair's fair, Bruce."

That drags a small grimace to my face, before I reluctantly admit, to myself, that he does have a point. "Deal," I agree. "Throw a good punch and learn how to fall, and then I'll talk."

A real smile, and then Clark shifts his weight and _strikes_.

* * *

"So," Clark starts, back against the wall and sitting at my side. Not close enough to touch, but enough that I can feel the heat radiating from him, and my nose is full of a strange mix of his fake-alpha scent, sweat, and something that I think might actually be his natural scent, beneath the rest. I don't know precisely how he fakes the alpha scent, or how long it takes to wear off, so I can't accurately say.

I look over when he doesn't continue, taking a drink from my bottle of water before I offer it to him. He takes it, drinking a whole lot more before he passes it back, sweat cooling on his brow. The lights are normal again, so he's recovering. Still sore, I can see it in his little winces and at how he keeps shifting himself a little to relieve pressure on bruises, but he'll heal within a couple hours. Less, if he goes somewhere with sunlight.

"The next time we do this, I vote actual workout clothes instead of costumes. Agreed?" I grunt confirmation, tilting my head — my cowl's bunched at the back of my neck — back against the wall. "Maybe we can actually even plan it in advance, if you think you can manage to actually communicate with me." The soft smile makes it clear that it's just gentle teasing, and I let myself give a tiny smirk in response.

"I think I can manage that."

"We'll see," he says, a bit quieter. "Your track record isn't all that great, you know. You tend to _not_ talk with anybody, especially when it comes to making decisions. Like this one. Which, speaking of, you owe me a conversation. You promised."

This grunt is a little more sour, as I flick my eyes upwards in an aborted roll. "I did," I admit.

When I don't say anything more, he prompts, "About why you're in this mood, the one that has you snapping at all of our teammates?"

I consider lying to him, for just a moment, but push that thought away. I probably _could_ control myself well enough that his hearing wouldn't pick up that I was lying, but the chances are only mediocre and if he catches me at it he's going to be fairly upset, most likely. Or rather, very disappointed. Not that I fear his displeasure, or care, but it's easier to work beside him when he's not upset with me. Easier to get him to trust me in the future too. I suppose I'll just have to actually tell him the truth.

"It's you," I say bluntly, and then wait for the expected confusion. It arrives right on schedule.

"Me? What did I do?" Clark actually manages to sound genuinely hurt at the idea that he's done something that's irritated me, and the strangest bit is I think it's actually the truth. Most people would be defensive when accused, not guilty before even being told what it is they've done.

"You haven't done anything wrong," is my grudging answer. "I'm having some trouble managing my own instincts; I will get a handle on them and that will be that. You have nothing to worry about."

"Uh-huh. Well I _am_ worried, so how about a little bit more information than that, Bruce? Some specifics?"

I bite back a sigh, glancing over at him as I take another sip from the bottle of water. "It isn't the easiest thing to have you faking subservience to me, while knowing it isn't real. It would be easier if I didn't know that you weren't a real alpha, but since I do, some parts of my mind are backing up the parts of my instincts that see your shows as real, and I'm having some difficulty maintaining the attitude I should without starting to believe it's true. Would you like more than that, or will that explanation suffice?"

Clark just _looks_ at me, expectantly.

I pass him the water, then continue. "A portion of my attention is focused on analyzing the moments that your performance slips enough to prove it isn't real, and it's distracting how fake your scent is, now that I realize it. The combating part is insisting that you _did_ beat me, and therefore I owe you far more obedience than I've given. Neither side is how I would like to behave. I am working on controlling myself, and finding a middle ground, but it isn't something I can fix in a day. I am aware it is a problem; you are not the first to comment on my recent behavior."

"Yeah? Who else?"

"Alfred," I mutter. "Dick." He laughs, and I shoot him a sharp glance. “What?”

He smiles as he looks at me. “Just remembering your comment about lectures. Alfred, right?” When I don’t answer, he leans a bit more back against the wall and tilts himself towards me. “Alright, and the rest of it?”

My eyes narrow as I look at him, _knowing_ what he’s talking about but trying my best to deny that I do. “What rest of it?”

Clark gives me another of those _looks_ , something gently reprimanding and expectant all at once. “Bruce, remember the super-senses? I noticed it on accident, if it makes you feel better; I wasn’t looking.”

“You’re too much of a boyscout to look,” I counter, “even if people think you are vastly _more_ of one than you really are.”

He smiles a little wider at that, not defending himself at all. “If it’s just physical, that’s fine. Flattering, actually. But I mean, if it’s something you actually want, I’m not against it.” A small shrug as I really _look_ at him, studying the openness to his expression and his body language. “Just so you know.”

I stay silent, watching him, until he looks away from me and out at the rest of the room. Then, against _all_ of my better judgment, I ask, “What if I was?”

His smile still _looks_ innocent, but there’s a little flare of heat to his eyes that I’m definitely not imagining, and this time it isn’t heat vision. “Well, I remember someone saying that the cameras were off and the door was locked, and that no one ever needed to know if we didn’t want them to. That seems like an opportunity to me, don’t you think?”

It’s… appealing. My fantasies about Clark haven’t gone away; in fact, they’ve only really gotten worse after these weeks of little subservient gestures. Which direction things go tends to vary, but I find myself on the bottom more often than not in my mental pictures, which is — honestly — probably accurate, but not entirely welcome. It’s not entirely unwelcome, either.

“One time?”

“Your call,” Clark answers, then teases, “Might want to let the first time happen before you make plans about any other times though. What if I’m amazing?”

“What if you’re awful?” I counter, automatically. He only laughs, though I’m not entirely sure if it’s amusement at the idea, or just at how blunt I am. Probably the latter; Clark’s not usually all that arrogant.

Clark reaches over, clasping my shoulder for just a moment as he smiles, honest and open. “Completely your choice, Bruce. I’m just offering the option, if you want it. Consent and respect, right?”

The heat of his touch is noticeable, even through my suit, and that distracts me for a moment. Just a moment. Then my mind turns to the idea of this encounter, to the practicalities, to the potential worst and best case scenarios. Clark, to his credit, just sits back, drinks the rest of the water, and lets me think.

Until, finally, I decide, “No. Not this time.”

“But maybe next time?” Clark fills in, jumping back into the conversation like the silence was never there.

“Maybe next time,” I concede. “With proper supplies, and prior conversations about logistics and details. We should arrange a time to meet and discuss it, as well as a time for our next training session. That should happen regardless of how negotiations go.”

A soft laugh, and a smile that almost looks fond. “Only you could make this sound like a business meeting, Bruce. Want to decide that now, or later?”

“Can you remember all your prior commitments off the top of your head?” He pauses, winces. “Later then; I’ll contact you.”

“I could drop by the manor, if you want?”

It’s my turn to wince, as I push off the ground and get to my feet. “I’d prefer if you didn’t. Just keep your phone on you; I’ll call.”

Clark follows me to standing, and then towards the door when I head that direction. “If you don’t, I’m just going to have to stop by and say hi to Alfred. I’m sure my mother’s got some recipe or other she wants to share with him.”

As threats go, it’s not a bad one. Alfred and Martha Kent should never have been introduced to each other; if the downfall of the League ever comes, I swear it will be at their hands. Through pie and smiles, as insane as the idea seems. They would find a way, I’m sure. Or just guilt us all into resigning with disappointed looks and soft sighs. Hard to say which method would be more efficient.

I don’t bother actually responding, keying in my codes to unlock the door with one hand while I reach back and tug my cowl back on with the other. When it opens, I step through before I turn back to Clark, who is just a couple steps from me.

“Next time,” I say, as a promise.

He smiles. “Next time.”


End file.
